^/ 




Book E^iS o^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SONGS OF THE STREETS 
AND BYWAYS 



Songs of the Streets 
and Byways 



By 

W^illlam Herschell 



Illustrated With Photographs 



Indianapolis 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company 

Publishers 



J'bd^^-i 



Copyright, 1915 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company 



DEC 20 1915 
S)CU416966 



To a Comrade Asleep 

MY FATHER 

This little volume is 
affectionately dedicated 






Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/songsofstreetsbyOOhers 



AND XOJV IT IS REVEALED UXTO YOU— 

Friends, whom the author esteems as 
genuine, said: ''Why don't you put them 
into a book?'^ 

Acquaintances added a handclasp to their 
declarations that they liked my verses be- 
cause they were ''so human. 



)) 



A little bov telephoned on occasional 
Saturday evenings and said: "I liked to- 
day's best of all." 

And I like some of them myself. 

Out of it all has grown this simple volume 
composed of verses printed in The Indian- 
apolis News under the captions of "Songs of 
the City Streets" and "Ballads of the By- 



wavs." 



The Author 



CONTENTS 



The Exiles 

Two Men of the Road 

Timothy jMackessy, Cop Number One 

The Show Parade 

Matrimony a la Carte 

The Down-Train to Madison 

The Old Red Pump on the Corner 

"Wish You Was Here" 

The House of Where 

His First Pockets .... 

When '"20" Comes Into the Yards 

Up Along the River 

Hollyhocks 

Um-m-m ! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to Me! 

The Old Green Sash 

Fetching Home the Cows 

School's Out at Shortridge 

The Lament of the Lonesome Gray 

"Git-ep!" 

The Circus Wagon's Rumble 
The Story of the Game 
The Urchin and the Lily 



1 
5 
8 
11 
14 
17 
21 
24 
28 
31 
34 
37 
41 
45 
47 
49 
53 
57 
61 
64 
68 
72 



CONTENTS 
Longings and Limitations 
The Vocalizing Vulcans 
The Muddled Modes 
Mother's Day 
Howdy, Mistah Punkin 
A Creekside Comedy 
Santa Claus Days 
Thanksgivin' Punkin Pie 
The Wonderful Land of See 
Little Lady 'Prinklecan 
When You've Been Away a While 
The Mop Marys 
The Old High Chair 
Good Old Mister Bobsled 
The Handicap of Riches 
An Early Autumn Lullaby 
The Plugger ... 
Autumn on the Towpath 
In the Back-Lot League 
That Fellow 
The Old Track Gang 
The Water Cure 
The Girls of Five-Minutes-to-Eight 



. 75 
. 79 
. 83 
. 88 
. 92 
. 95 
. 98 
. 101 
. 103 
. 106 
. 109 
. 113 
. 116 
. 120 
. 122 
. 124 
. 126 
. 128 
. 132 
. 135 
. 138 
. 143 
. 147 



SONGS OF THE STREETS 
AND BYWAYS 



THE EXILES 

TT ^E'VE got to leave the old home, wife, 

Be exiles, you and I ; 
To these broad fields we've loved so long 

We've got to say good-by. 
The old farm doesn't need us now; 

It only laughs, my mate, 
At us two poor, old-fashioned folks 

Since it's got up-to-date. 
It used to be dependent, dear. 

On these old hands of ours; 
Mine to tend its grain and grass. 

Yours its fruit and flowers. 
For when we came and settled here. 

And knew life's hardest bumps, 
This big, swell-headed farm of ours 

Grew nothing else but stumps. 



2 - THEEXILES 

Then — then there came that luckless time, 

That sad, ill-omened day 
We brought our first self-binder home 

And threw the scythe away. 
And ever since that time, Louise, 

We've squandered all our means 
To give this farm its swinging gates 

And patent-right machines. 
Alas! — for our indulgence, dear — 

We're banished into town. 
Though we had hoped that here 

We'd see life's golden sun go down. 
The old place — how we've loved it — 

Doesn't need us any more 
Since automatic hands perform 

The tasks we did of yore. 



THEEXILES 3 

The windmill pumps the water now; 

It churns the butter, too, 
And incubators do the work 

Your old hens used to do. 
A motor grinds the cattle feed; 

It likewise shears the sheep 
That patent locks protect at night 

When they lie down to sleep. 
The rural-route man brings the mail 

And leaves it at the door, 
Thus making void my last excuse 

To loaf down at the store. 
The trolley brings the groceries — 

We phone for them, you know — 
And parlor films have made our home 

A moving-picture show. 



-4 THEEXILES 

The shredder shreds the corn and me, 

The rail fence now is wire, 
And some one's sold you some new scheme 

To cook without a fire. 
We light the house with tanked-up gas, 

It lights the big barn, too, 
And threshing-time has lost its charm 

With salaried boss and crew. 
Machinery cuts and loads the hay, 

Then stows it in the mow. 
And — last and worst — they've found a way 

To patent-milk the cow. 
So come, let's journey townward, dear, 

We're laid upon the shelf — 
The old farm's got so dog-goned smart 

That it can run itself! 



TWO MEN OF THE ROAD 

^ I ^WO men there were whose journey lay 

Down green, tree-bordered paths to-day, 
But one had eyes that would not see 

The w^ayside's art-divinity. 
He thought but of the motor's grind, 

Of clouded miles he'd leave behind; 
He had no mission save to say 

He'd gone so many miles to-day. 
The beauty of the woodland's dress 

To him was hazy nothingness. 
Just once a grim smile lit his face — 

A fool-bird dared to set him pace! 
A fool-bird — poor, misguided wight — 

Dared taunt him to a test of flight. 
Thus on and on he blithely sped. 

His only goal — the miles ahead! 



6 'TWO MEN OF THE ROAD 

He did not see beside the road 

Another man who calmly strode 
Amid the shade of glade and glen, 

Then back into the road again. 
He did not see the old man's eyes 

Grow glad and twinkle with surprise 
When out there hopped a friendly toad 

To blink at him across the road. 
He did not near Bob White's refrain 

Come echoing from down the lane ; 
He did not catch the plowboy's yell 

Of welcome to the dinner bell. 
He did not hear the old man sigh 

In pity as he hurried by — 
He did not see him stoop to get 

God's sweetest thing— a violet! 




^v- ..v. .t..:v -•^" 



TIMOTHY MACKESSY 

Cop Number One 

TIMOTHY MACKESSY, Cop Num- 
ber One! 
Good-natured, round-f atured son of a gun! 
Always a-smilin', at fri'nd an' foe — 
If the last named he's anny, not one do I 

know. 
Old folks an' young folks, the fat ones an' 

slim 
Shout whin they see him: ''Begorra, there's 

Tim!" 

All of thim like him, this rev'ler in fun — 
Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 

Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 

It's more good than harm our Timothy's 
done. 

8 



10 TIMOTHY MACKESSY 

Down by the depot with smiles on his face 

He p'ints all the strangers to Monument 
Place. 

He hunts all the babies the mothers have lost 
An' holds up the cyars till the ladies have 
crossed. 

It's only the blackgyards that Timmy will 

shun — 
Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 

Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 

D'aler in jokes that are all Irish spun. 

He bosses the Tunnel an' calls it his cave 

An' says whin he dies, shure he'll make it his 
grave. 

But thim that knows Timmy just laugh an' 
reply: 

''Begorra, Tim, lad, you're too jov'al to die!" 

So live on forever. Apostle of Fun — 

Timothy Mackessy, Cop Number One! 



THE SHOW PARADE 

YOUTH came back to my door to-day, 
Youth, the fugitive; Youth, the gay, 

Came with smiles and a twinkling eye, 
Bringing me dreams of days gone by. 

It called me out to a wayside street 
Where children, merry as they were sweet, 

Bade me witness — and I obeyed — - 
Their "grandly marvelous show parade!" 

And then there passed in gay review 
Three little girls and Rummy, too; 

Rummy, the dog, the friend, the clown. 
With sunbonnet on, but upside down; 

Wagons and buggies and boxes tied 
With Tabbies and dolls and toys inside. 

Truly a picture to start the flow 

Of tear-brewed dreams of a long ago. 

11 



12 THE SHOW PARADE 

Now, through the mist of bygone years, 
Our old barn-lot and its show appears. 

I see, in fancy, bright quilt tepees, 
Rag-carpet tents and a broom trapeze. 

I hear old Skeeter, my fellow clown, 
Wail at my painting his eyelids brown. 

It broke up the show — and I got mine!— 
For the paint we used was iodine! 

But that was part of the show, you see, 
Of Red and Skeeter and Sis and Me; 

Part of the tortures suffered then 
That all, I know, would bear again 

Could we, once more, go back and play 
Saturday circus — but, here, well, say, 

Children, forgive me, for I've delayed 
With Yesterday's dreams To-day's parade 



<I2} 



/ 

/ 




MATRIMONY A LA CARTE 

A LADY ees come to my cart, 
Wheech standa een da street, 
She buy banan' an' evratheeng 

So gooda an' so sweet! 
On Market day she always come 

An' we mak' friendla fun 
'Bout w'at 1 do w'en I geet reech 

An' gotta plenta mon'. 
She say: ''I bet you some day, Mike, 

W'en you ees wealtha man, 
You geeta stuck on pooty girl 

Wheech ees a 'Merican." 
But I say: ^'No, you mak' mistak', 

Dat theeng can nevra be, 
Eef I am gon' for geet a wife 

She come from Eetaly!" 
Den she ees look so mad an' say: 

''Poor Mike, you foolish guy, 
You should have wife bak' Bosta' bean 

An' mak' you gooda pie!" 

14 



16 MATRIMONY A LA CARTE 

I say: '^My goodness, how you talk, 

So pooty an' so swell, 
You sounda like you leeve yourself 

Een granda, bceg hotel! ' 
She say: ''Aw^, w'at's a matta you? 

You mak' me sucha seeck. 
Wen 'Merican got bumma cook 

He mak' wan louda keeck. 
Een deesa countra life ees sweet 

An' we want queeck for die 
Eef on da table eet ees not 

Some Bosta' bean an' pie!" 
My, my, she got me sucha blufif 

I not know w'at to say, 
But I am feex for her nex' time 

She come on Market day. 
I say: ''Go 'way, you 'Mericans, 

You can no cook I bet. 
So sweet, so good, like Dago girls, 

Eyetalian spaghett'!" 



THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 



T'VE been ai far east as Altoony; 
-^ my west mark, I think, is K. C, 
But distance ain't been my ambition — 

just leave out globe-trottin' fer me. 
ril let you ride 'round in th' Pullmans 

an' revel in dinin' car fare — 
Th' Down-train to Madison's my train — 

I'll do all my travelin' there! 
You ain't been, you say? Well, youVe 

missed it an' ought to go soon as you can, 
That is, if you're not in a hurry an' live 

on th' sociable plan. 

Th' Down-train goes dow^n in th' mornin', 
a-weekdays an' Sundays as well ; 

Th' Up-train comes back in th' evenin' — 
but here's what I'm tryin' to tell; 

17 



18 THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 

Th' Down-train's the Neighborly Special, 

unmarred by luxurious frill, 
It gathers up folks from Columbus 

clear down to old Madison Hill. 
They git on at 'Liztown an' Hege, 

at Scipio, Vernon an' Wirt; 
They hop 'er at Queensville an' Grayford, 

but nobody ever gits hurt. 

It's just like a family reunion 

to board th' old Madison train; 
You'll meet up with comrades an' kinfolks, 

you'll chuckle at sweetheart an' swain. 
Bill Moody will git on at Dupont 

an' joke at old 'Zekiel York 
'Bout bein' so crooked he reckons 

that Zeke'll git ofl at th' Fork. 
Then Zeke will git back at Bill's jokin' 

an' make th' suggestion that Bill 



20 - THE DOWN-TRAIN TO MADISON 

Ain't one-half as straight as th' roundhouse 
that stands on old Madison Hill. 

Here neighbor says ^'Howdy" to neighbor, 

then turns th' seat over so's he 
Can talk of th' crops an' th' weather 

an' how times are likely to be. 
Th' Down-train is Fellership's agent, 

a trait to be truly admired; 
Th' Up-train comes back in th' evenin' 

when every one's hungry an' tired. 
An' so it's th' Down-train I sing of — 

repellin' all worry an' strife — 
A symbol of Youth, you might call it, 

that runs through th' Mornin' of Life. 



THE OLD RED PUMP ON THE 
CORNER 

OLD Red Pump on the Corner! 
Here's to your matchless brew; 
You with a job like a woman's — 
Never an end in view. 
Morning and noon and evening 

Your arm extends to greet 
The tired and thirsty thousands 

Of the hot and dusty street. 
Friend of both prig and prelate 

Foe not to race or creed, 
Yours is a holy mission — 

To give men the drink they need, 

See how they come as pilgrims 

Seeking an ancient shrine, 

Grasping your cup like bibbers 

Famished for favorite wine 

21 




Merchant, fireman and newsboy; 

Motorman, darky and drone 
Draw on your cooling treasure 

As if each drop were his own. 
Some of your friends are palsied, 

Some of them blind and old. 
But each finds joy and vigor 

In your draught so clear and cold. 



THE OLD RKD PUMP ON TIIK CORNER 23 

Old Red Pump on the Corner! 

Of woes you have your share; 
They say you gather microbes 

And spread them everywhere. 
Of course we know grim Science 

Must view you with alarm 
And make you seem a menace 

Devoid of worth or charm. 
But we of humbler learning 

Find, when the day is hot, 
You may be germ-prolific. 

But, Pump, how you hit the spot! 



^WISH YOU WAS HERE" 

^^OT a card from Steve this mornin', 
^^ Dog-gone his trav'lin' skin, 

He's up around Niag'ry Falls 

A-writin' home ag'in. 
Seems like that boy's one glory 

Is Avand'rin' fur an' free, 
An' furder off he gits, I gosh, 

Th' more he writes to me. 
He sends these pictur' postal cards. 

With photos showin' that 
Th' world is alius beautif'lest 

Where you ain't livin' at. 
His messages reads all th' same — 

In letters large an' clear 
He writes from Maine or Kankakee an' 
says — 

"Wish you was here!" 

24 



26 "wish you was here" 

Nobody ever seems to know 

■J 

Just when he'll go er where; 
We git his destination 

From th' card that says he's there. 
An' he ain't more than settled down 

To loaf a day or two 
Till he gits thinkin' up th' names 

Of ever' one he knew. 
An' then with ever' dog-gone cent 

He possibly kin spare 
He buys th' Unitary church, 

Th' Depot an' th' Square. 
He buys 'bout ever'thing they is 

In Bath er Belvidere, 
Then mails th' whole blame business home 
an' says — ■ 

''Wish you was here!" 



''wish you was here" 27 

I guess he's at Niag'ry now — • 

He was last time he wrote — 
But that don't prove conclusively 

He ain't in Terry Hote. 
He may be down in Panama 

Er snoopin' 'round in Nome, 
Nobody knows just wiiere he's at^ 

Except he ain't at home! 
I guess we'd never hear from him 

Per months er mebbe years 
If some kind soul had not devised 

These pictur' souvenirs. 
Yes, I expect if Steve would die 

He'd rise up from his bier 
To pen a card to all his friends an' say — 

"Wish you was here!" 



THE HOUSE OF WHERE 

T])ESIDE the winding Friendswood road 
^^^ A house of weathered gray 

Stands tenantless as Eden's reabn 

Since Adam moved away. 
The old house makes me Fancy's toy 

And thoughts, unguarded, play 
At wondering who abided there 

And where they are to-day. 
It is, in fact, a House of Where; 

Strange voices seem to say: 
"O where's the cheer of yesteryear? 

The children, where are they?" 

The gate, weed-throttled, silent stands, 
Its creak has lost its thrill. 

The fence has fallen in decay 

And tumbled down the hill. 

28 




Its pickets bear no sunning crocks, 

The groaning pump is still, 
No voices echo from the barn 

''Gee-hawing" Bob and Bill. 
No mother voice sounds noontime's call 

To ''Come and get your fill" — 
There's naught but silence — everywhere !- 

Monotonous and chill- 



30 "THE HOUSE OF WHERE 

The trees, old comrades left behind, 

Cast forth a useless shade; 
They seem to wreathe in gloom the place 

Where once glad children played. 
Where are the little pilgrims now? 

Where have their footsteps strayed? 
Where has the mother of the brood 

New habitation made? 
No answer comes — but Heaven grant 

The changes they've essayed 
Have led them to still brighter paths, 

With spirit unafraid. 



HIS FIRST POCKETS 

T'M got pockets! 1st like man's — 

■^ One for bofe of my two ban's! 

One for pennies when I'm good 

Like my muvver says I should; 
One for cookies— yes, an' say, 

I had shoc'late drops to-day; 
Had 'em in my pockets where 

They ain't got no business there, 
'Cause they shoc'late up my pants 

If they git a half a chance. 
'Nen my muvver laugh and say 

What's they made for anyway? 
Ain't they made for boys to eat? — ■ 

. Li'l boys 'at's good an' sweet? 
'Specially th' kind 'at grows 

Up wif pockets in their clo'es! 

31 



32 HIS FIRST POCKETS 

Daddy he's got pockets, too, 

1st like all us mans's do, 
Still he says it's funny, though. 

Where his pennies all time go. 
'Nen my muvver she ist play 

Like she don't hear what he say; 
'Nen he says well he suppose 

Burg-u-lars been in his clo'es. 
'Nen I say I spec' they do 

An' he says he knows 'em, too. 
But he don't — 'cause muvver she 

Says he puts 'em there for me. 
Muvver she — it don't seem fair — 

Ain't got pockets anywhere. 
But she says, gee, ain't it fine? — 

She kin keep her things in mine! 



WHEN ''20" COMES INTO THE 
YARDS 

^ I ^HE levers click up in the tower, 

The semaphore's arm changes, too; 
The yard shanty clock points the hour 
When old "Number 20" is due. 

From out of the west comes a rumble. 
The switch engines sneak from the main, 

Forsaking toil slavish and humble 
To clear for the limited train. 

It's "20" that's coming— old "20"— 
Proud bearer of men and of mail; 

The symbol of speed and of plenty, 
A queen of the caravan trail. 



36 'WHEN ''20" COMES INTO THE YARDS 

The tower man out at the Crossing 
Stands fast by his levers and smiles 

As smoke clouds, with turbulent tossing, 
Go trailing old "20" for miles. 

He signals down into the city 
That "20" has passed on her way, 

Then whistles some lighthearted ditty — 
She's "by" without any delay! 

O'er subway, past shanty and siding. 
The wheels whirr in musical chime, 

As down through the yards she goes gliding 
And enters the station on time! 

Unmindful of joy or of sorrow 
Old "20" speeds east on her run, 

Then turns and — re-christened — to-morrow 
Comes westward as old "21." 



UP ALONG THE RIVER 

T TP along the river! 
^^ What a wealth of beauty lies 

In its rippling panorama 

Of the cloud-fantastic skies. 
Here a castle, there a city 

Mirrored up to boat and shore, 
Just to taunt my June-day fancies. 

Then to vanish evermore. 
Now a willow dips its laces 

In the warm, dream-hazy tide, 
As a dark tadpole flotilla 

Scurries off somewhere to hide. 
Then I hear a flap of canvas 

And the swish of waters rent 
By a craft, lone-manned, but freighted 

With a cargo of content. 

37 



38 - UP ALONG TPIE RIVER 

And I catch my own sea-envies 

Rising up to wish that I 

Were the skipper and the cargo 

Of that ship a-sailing by- 

Up along the river! 

What a joy it is to be 
Where the deepest gloom that haunts you 

Is the shadow of a tree; 
Where the greatest tide that thrills you 

Is a river flowing by 
And its ripples dancing tangoes 

With a cloud rift in the sky. 
Dear old Fancy! 
How you lure me into June-green paths 

to-day — 
Paths that lead along the river — 

Up the river far away! 



■.iN|«- '''^- 




40 - UP ALONG THE RIVER 

There are boats, too — and companions — 

In this panorama rare, 
And the only joy that's missing 

Is the joy of being there. 
For I — like legion others 

In the city's thrall to-day 
Can only dream I'm up there — 

Up the river far away! 



HOLLYHOCKS 

/^ AY HOLLYHOCKS, who gave you 
^-^ Such an unromantic name? 

One held among the humblest 

In the garden's hall of fame. 
Who fixed your floral status 

So that you must hide your face 
At kitchen doors, by backyard fence, 

Or other lonely place? 

You seem, somehow, a mystery, 

And yet your magic bloom 
Makes pageantry of poverty 

And gives a glow to gloom. 
You bring a beam to ashmen's eyes 

And all the alley clan 
Tiptoes to get a glimpse of you 

And your glad caravan. 

41 



42 HOLLYHOCKS 

Why don't you march right out in front 

And let your blooms compete 
With all the summer's pampered pets, 

The garden's gay elite? 
Bid each hue-neutral passer-by 

To take an honest view, 
Then say which plant-aristocrat 

Has fairer tints than you. 

Parade your pink and yellow hues, 

Stand forth in white and red, 
Then show with what fine majesty 

You lift your queenly head. 
Sway back and forth across the breeze 

Where rose and dahlia reign. 
Till newborn envy shall supplant 

Their previous disdain. 

And yet you seem divinely sent 

To blossom where you do — 



44 HOLLYHOCKS 

Where men of humble walk must pass 
And need such joys as you. 

So, Hollyhocks, reign on, reign on 

By backyard fence and door 

That smiles may glowingly abide 

Where shadows dwelt before. 



UM-M-M ! UM-M-M ! PASS 'EM 

TO ME! 

/^^OOD mawnin', Mistah Meat Man! 
^^ Whut's dat Ah heah yo' say? 

Yo' got some classic livah 

To tempt me wif to-day? 
Well, Ah doan' want no livah 

An' Ah doan' want no lamb ; 
Ma eyes am shut to pohk chops 

An' Ah ain' a-huntin' ham. 
Cross off ma name fo' chicken, 

Put sausage out o' sight. 
Den please inscribe ma ordah 

Fo' some Cullud Folks' Delight. 
Cut off a nice, big chunk uv — 

Yo' know whut Aoril means — 
Ah wants a slab o' bacon 

Fo' ma dandelion greens! 
Um-m-m! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to me! 

45 



46 um-m-m! um-m-m! pass 'em to me! 

Dis mawnin' when de dewdrops 

Was a-rasslin' wif de sun 
Ah ketched ma lips a-smackin' 

Lak dey want to hab some fun. 
So Ah gethahs up ma basket 

An' goes singin' sof an' low 
To de commons down by Fall Creek 

Whah de dandelions grow. 
Den ma ole case knife went diggin' 

In de Providential soil 
Till ma eahs dey got to itchin' 

Fo' to heah dem sizz an' boil. 
So cut me off some hog meat — 

Yo' know whut April means — 
Ah wants a slab o' bacon 

Fo' ma dandelion greens! 
Um-m-m! Um-m-m! Pass 'em to. me! 



THE OLD GREEN SASH 

TT^ETCH me ould green sash, Ann Dugan, 
^ Place it with me Sunday clo'es, 
There besoide me sprig av shamrock 

Sent from where th' shamrock grows. 

Press th' wrinkles from me sash, Ann, 
Make it so's th' folds will lay 

Close upon th' breast thot loves it. 

Wears, it, too, S'int Pathrick's day. 

I'm t' roide a horse, mavourneen, 
Up where all th' world can see 

How me heart still clings to Erin, 
Land av our nativity. 

Oh, ye'll be thot proud, Ann Dugan, 
Whin ye see me prancin' by, 

47 



48 ■ THE OLD GREEN SASH 

Thot within yer heart ye'U whisper: 
''There's me Oirish proide an' j'yl" 

Shure, ye'll see th' Sheas and Sharkeys, 
Wid thim Kelly fri'nds av moine, 

Passin' word along th' curbstone: 

''There comes Dugan! Ain't he foine?'' 

How yer dear ould heart will flutter 
Till th' tears and laughter clash, 

Then ye'll hear yer own self sayin': 
"Shure 'twas me thot tied th' sash!" 

Though th' years roll on, Ann Dugan, 
An' me hair grows deeper gray. 

Still thot dear ould sash I'll cherish 
Till me lasht S'int Pathrick's davl 



FETCHING HOME THE COWS 

TT^RIEND, I know you'll misconstrue me 
-*- An' will chuckle when I say 

That I've seen a livin' picture 

Of my boyhood's years to-day. 
Yes, sir; seen it like 'twas human 

An' it made th' blood in me 
Rise half-skeered an' half-delighted 

At its strange reality. 
Tell you how it was — now, listen ! 

Through some impulse undefined 
I walked countryward this t\v^ilight 

Seekin' calm an' peace of mind. 
Well, 'twas while I paused a moment 

Near the foot of Five-mile Bridge 
That a herd of cows come browsin' 

'Long a bypath down th' ridge. 

49 



50 - FETCHING HOME THE COWS 

Now, that ain't no strange adventure, 

But 'twas queer you will agree, 
That among th' livin' cattle 

Walked two cows in phantomryl 
Yes, sir; spirit cows, Fm sayin'. 

Walked among th' livin' herd. 
An' it got me so bewildered 

That I couldn't speak a word. 
Comin' — they just kep' a-comin' — 

Till th' mist that dimmed my eye 
Made me see old Red an' IVIollv — 

•J 

Cows Dad owned in days gone b}/ 
There they were, Red's bell a-tinklin', 

Where they always used to browse 
An' I heard my mother callin' : 

"Sonny, go an' fetch th' cows!'' 

All at once th' world grew newer! 
It was not a world of men: 



52- FETCHING HOME THE COWS 

It was boyhood, all obedient, 

Fetchin' home th' cows again. 
Joyously I followed after, 

Tossin' pebbles down the lane, 
Urgin' Red an' Molly homeward, 

For th' day was on th' wane. 
But my march abruptly ended 

When a man's voice made me rouse, 
Comin' from th' hills behind me: 

"Where ye goin' with my cows?" 
''Back to boyhood!" I informed him, 

An' I think he understood, 
For he answered, kind an' friendly: 

''Dear old man, I wish you could!" 



SCHOOL'S OUT AT SHORTRIDGE 

OTNG if you will of the debutantes 
^^ And toast all the queens that rule, 
But give me the girls — the Shortridge 
girls — 
On the homeward way from school. 

On the schoolward way their steps may halt 
And their eyes shed doubtful light, 

As they face the pall of Learning's call 
And of books untouched last night. 

For Youth in blossom is Youth aglow 

And none of us dares deny 
That the schoolward way was a dull, deep 
gray 

In the good old days gone by. 

53 



54 school's out at shortridge 

But after school! Then Youth sings songs 

As it goes its care-free way, 
And 'twas thus that I at old Shortridge High 

Saw the girls go by to-day. 

Their steps were light, their hearts were 
light, 

Not a book-cloud marred the sky; 
The school-day done^ they were out for fun 

And they had it — so did I. 

My heart grew glad as I saw them pass 

In caravan gay and sweet. 
While echoes of ''He^' and "Him" and "We" 

Were wafted along the street 

Ah, what is sweeter than Youth's first dreams 
Of Loves that never may be 

Or yields more smiles in the afterwhiles 
Of a School-day Memory? 



56 SCHOOL'S OUT AT SHORTRIDGE 

So here's to the Girls of Shortridge High, 
May Life flood their souls with joy, 

And could I decree new fate for me — 
Well, I'd be a Shortridge Boy! 



THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME 

GRAY 

\ N old gray nag, with a droop and drag, 
Drew up at the curb to-day, 
And, as horses talk as well as balk, 
We heard the old steed say : 

"Where are the friends, the good old friends 
I knew in the days gone by? 

The Bills and Petes of the city streets 
Are gone — but here am I. 

"The motor rage of this speed-mad age 
Has driven them all away, 

Till now Tm classed with the hazy Past 
And known as The Lonesome Gray. 

57 



58 THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME GRAY 

''I gaze to right and my only sight 

Is motors of divers style; 
I look to left and my soul's bereft 

Of even an old pal's smile. 

*^And now I hear — with loss of cheer — 
They're to have a Motor Show 

Like the horses had in the golden, glad 
Old days of the long ago. 

^'They'll shine and rub each spoke and hub, 
They'll make the bodies shed 

A lustrous sheen like that IVe seen 
Put on the thoroughbred. 

^'They'll talk of pumps, of springs and 
bumps, 

They'll gossip of tools and tires, 
But never a word will there be heard 

Of love for a line of sires. 



60 THE LAMENT OF THE LONESOME GRAY 

''Well, I suppose wise Progress knows 
The needs of the world to-day. 

But my old eyes blur when men prefer 
Honk-honk to a friendly neigh!" 



uQij^ EP!" 

T^EY is folks dat's alius whinin' 

^^^ 'Bout de burdens dey mus' b'ah, 

'Bout de sun ain' nevah shinin' 

An' it's rainin' ev'rywhah. 
An' dey nevah do no hopin' 

Fo' de bettah days to come, 
But sneak to bed a-mopin' 

An' git up all blue an' glum. 
Now, dey ain' no use o' talkin', 

Dat won't he'p de soul along, 
So, instid o' standin' balkin'. 

Perk right up an' sing dis song: 

Oh, Ah's got ma grins a-growin' 
An' Ah's got ma hawn a-blowin' ; 
'Tain' no time to be a-whoain', 
So, come on, le's git a-goin' — 
GIT EP! 

61 



62 ^'git ep!" 

Whut's de use ob lamentatin' 

'Bout de worl' an' its regrets? 
Naw, dey ain' no jobs a-waitin' 

Fo' de man dat fumes an' frets. 
Yo' may hab to face a sorrow 

As a paht ob life to-day, 
But de sunshine ob to-morrow 

Soon will sweep de clouds away. 
It's a fac' dat bein' teahful 

Gits yo' nothin' 'cep' a sting — 
So, come on, le's all be cheehful! 

Th'ow yo' haid up high an' sing 

Oh, Ah's got ma grins a-growin' 
An' Ah's got ma hawn a-blowin' ; 
'Tain' no time to be a-whoain', 
So, com.e on, le's git a-goin' — 
GIT EP! 



THE CIRCUS WAGON'S RUMBLE 

TT^OLKS, I know you're goin' to chuckle 

An' embarrass me like sin 
With your jov'al accusations 

That I'm turnin' boy ag'in, 
When I make th' simple statement, 

Purged of guile an' fancy free, 
That a circus wagon's rumble 

Ain't unmusical to me. 
Them's th' facts! I say it honest 

An' could prove my the'ries true 
If you only had th' courage 

Of a young 'un's point of view. 
Just fergit now, fer a moment. 

All your self-devised conceit 
An' play like there's a circus show 

A-comin' down th' street. 

64 



66 THE CIRCUS wagon's RUMBLE 

Here she comes! There's no denyin' 
It's a picture mighty grand, 

With its clowns an' golden cages 

An' its heralders an' band. 
Now just set your ears fer listenin', 

Both a-hark'nin' to'rd th' ground, 
So's they'll ketch th' rhythmic rumble 

Of th' wheels a-goin' 'round. 
Why, it makes my body tingle 

From my head down to my heels 
When I hear th' rumblin' mumblin' 

Of a circus wagon's wheels. 
No, I w^ouldn't say 'twas music, 

Like a harp or choral glee, 
But I do insist, by doggies, 

That it's mighty sweet to me! 

I just go around a-listenin' 

From th' time it comes to town 



THE CIRCUS wagon's RUMBLE 67 

Till th' big menag'rie's loaded 

An' th' tents are comin' down. 
Every wheel I hear a-turnin' 

Brings my boyhood back to me, 
When I went to bed at sunset 

An' got up at half pas' three. 
I can tell each wagon's rumble — 

Ticket, canvas, cage or pole — 
An' I learnt my first real cussin' 

From a driver in a hole. 
So, you see I'm schooled in circus, 

An' no rumbles ever heard 
Are as sweetly hypnotistic — 

If there is that kind of word. 



THE STORY OF THE GAME 

QAY, Mister Sportin' Editor, 

Please give us kids de space 
To tell about de winnin' 

Of de Stringtown pennant race. 
Ye see, 'twuz like dis. Mister, 

Us Little White Sox guys 
We played de Blake Street Busters 

Four games an' two wuz ties, 
Well, dey dis kep' a-claimin' 

Dey's champeens, don't ye see? 
Dis 'cause deir game stood ten to eight 

An' ours wuz four to three. 
So we got tired o' listenin' 

To all deir champeen stuff 
An' challenged 'em to play de rub — 

An' 'course dey called de blufif. 

68 



70 THE STORY OF THE GAME 

Who christianed us de White Sox? 

Well, dat's our name all right, 
Fer when our team is goin' t' play 

We wash our ankles white. 
Well, after poppin' off a while 

De Busters dey come 'round. 
An' said dey'd play us Saturday 

Down on de circus ground. 
Us captains tossed a bat to see 

Which side took in er out 
An' dat's de way de game begun 

I'm tellin' ye about. 
Well, t'ings went nip an' tuck a while 

Until de Busters dey 
Got to our pitcher an' we t'ought 

De stuff v/uz off, but say, 
De ninth come 'round, de score 

It stood ag'in' us — six to three — 



THE STORY OF THE GAME '^1 

Two Sox wuz out — de bases full! — 

An' it wuz up to me! 
Two strikes! TVee balls! 

De dippy umps wuz stingin' me fer fair — 
De next ball up wuz in de groove! 

Say, guy, I hit it square! 
It bee-lined tVoo de pitcher's box 

Wid never slackin' pace 
Till — bing! It stuck inside a can 

We used fer second base! 
Us four White Sox went racin' 'round — 

I made de winnin' run 
Before dey got dat baseball out! 

Dat's how de game wuz won! 
De Busters touched us wid de can, 

But umps says, wid a grin: 
*'Ye got t' touch 'em wid de ball 

An' not a piece o' tin!" 



THE URCHIN AND THE LILY 

*'T_JANDS off the flowers," the park 

-^ sign said. 

The Urchin — what cared he? — 
When lilies, from their marshy bed, 

Peered forth so temptingly. 

''Wat's floVs fer?" we heard him say, 

'Tf dey ain't fer t' pick, 
Uspecially w'en 'cross de way 

Dey's some one awful sick!" 

And ere the park policeman's shout 
Could halt his hand or feet, 

He'd plucked a lily, wheeled about, 
And hurried for the street. 

The water from the petals dripped 
And marked his speeding path, 

72 



m-m 



K.*- 







74 THE URCHIN AND THE LILY 

Till through a cottage door he tripped 
Beyond avenging wrath. 

There, on a bed of snowy white, 

The lily bud he threw. 
'^Gee, looky, sweetheart!" cried the mite. 
Look w'at I brung to you!" 



U' 



His mother's pale hands clasped his own 
And tear-drops that he saw 

Made him to lisp, in tender tone: 

''Ain't you my sweetheart, Ma?" 



LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 

DON'T think that I'm complainin', 
folks, 

'Bout bein' horned a girl, 

'Cause I'm as glad as I can be 

I'm not a dog er squir'l. 
But, seems to me, boys alius gits 

Th' best of ever'thing, 
Uspecially when circus shows 

Starts comin' in th' Spring, 
Fer then they git to go an' watch 

Th' circus train unload, 
An' see th' elephants an' all 

A-comin' down th' road. 
But girls — they've got to stay at home. 

No matter how they frown, 
An' act like growed-up wimmens when 

Th' circus comes to town. 

76 



76 LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 

Boys gits up mornin's four o'clock — 

My brother does, an' he 
Wakes up th' boy next door, but they 

Don't never wake up me. 
They never wait fer breakfast time, 

Like girls would have to do; 
Dis all they want is crackers, er 

A cold fried egg er two. 
Then off they go an' don't come back 

Till supper time, an' then 
Go sneakin' through th' backyard gate 

An' see th' show again. 
But girls they've got to stay at home 

An' pout an' sit aroun', 
Ap' hate it 'cause they're wimmen when 

Th' circus comes to town. 

I bet you when I git growed up, 

An' have things my own way, 



78 LONGINGS AND LIMITATIONS 

I'll go out to th' circus grounds 

An' stay there all th' day. 
No one can make me stick at home 

All dollared up an' sweet, 
An' I'll have all th' lemonade 

An' peanuts I can eat. 
I'll .tell you what girls ought to do, 

To not be left alone — 
That's buy theirselves a circus show 

An' have it all their own. 
Er else all go an' marry to 

Some ackerbat er clown 
An' live right with the circus when 

Th' circus comes to town. 



THE VOCALIZING VULCANS 

^ T ONG 'bout four doors down Georgy 
•L/ Street, 

Just off o' Illinoy, 
Bill Powell keeps a blacksmith shop — 

Bill Powell an' his boy. 
Th' shop's just like ten thousand more, 

Except in one degree — 
It's got some sentiments on toil 

That's mighty sweet to m^e. 
Now' days th' order is to work 

From dawn till set of sun. 
But down to Bill's they do their work — 

Then sing when they git done 

Bill's men is all musicianers — 

Such good ones, I'll remark, 

79 



80 THE VOCALIZING VULCANS 

That when their organ starts to play 

ril hang around till dark. 
An' it's a reg'lar organ, too, 

An Estey worn an' old, 
But still possessed of tones like them 

Th' forest choirs unfold. 
I reckon 'twas a treasure 

In some parlor long ago, 
For Bill's boy bought it second-hand — 

Or third-hand — he dunno. 

It sits around behind th' forge 

An', I confesG, it's odd 
To see an organ in th' midst 

Of horses gittin' shod. 
Yet, there it is, an' oftentimes 

You'll hear th' anvil's ring 
A-keepin' time with melodies 

Th' smiths and teamsters smg. 



82 THE VOCALIZING VULCAXS 

But most times it's at close of day 

When all th' work is through 

That BilTs men an' th' organ 

Harmonize a hymn or two. 

Th' firelight in th' forge burns low — 

Yet high enough so's they 
Can see th' hymn book an' th' notes 

That Bill's boy has to play. 
The' traffic out in Georgy Street 

Slows down an' halts to hear 
Old ^'Rock of Ages" ringin' out 

In cadence sweet an' clear. 
An' there I sit a-thankin' God 

That, of th' city's throng, 
There's some who find life sweet enough 

To blend its toil with song. 



THE MUDDLED MODES 



ES, Time has devised many changes. 



Y 

-■^ my brother 



I'm not the beau-bravo you once used to 
know. 

Perhaps I've slowed up, Bud, but somehow 
or other 

I don't make the breeze that I did years ago, 

I now stand around like some preacher on 
pension, 

And, Bud, you may grasp what my plati- 
tudes mean 

When I but remark that I'm under great 
tension 

Since Sister looks forty and Mother — 
sixteen! 

You don't live at home. Bud; you miss the 
confusion 

83 



84 THE MUDDLED MODES 

That comes of the styles as they're wearing 
them now. 

My days are all spent m a maze of illusion — 

I can't tell our Mother from Sister some- 
how! 

Oft times as I gaze down the walks ot the 
garden 

I see a trim figure with grace of a queen; 

It looks like our Sister but — I must beo^ 
pardon — 

It's tunic-gowned Mother — not forty! — six- 
teen! 

And Sister — dear Sister — that idolized 

creature, 
With stately composure she sweeps thro' 

the hall, 
The girlishness banished from coiffure and 

feature — 



86 THE MUDDLED MODES 

You'd think her teens vanished forever and 

all! 
She trips off with Mother to tea or cotillion ; 
They maxixe and tango in chumship serene, 
And no man would dare — not one man in a 

million — 
To say which was forty and which was — • 

sixteen! 

I see them down-cOwn in the bargaining 
Meccas, 

My heart beats with pride as they Argentine 
by; 

Oh, yes, they walk dance steps — the Eves 
and Rebekahs 

Now move with new grace that is youthful 
and spry. 

And, brother, I like it — with all my inert- 
ness — 



THE MUDDLED MODES S7 

The man who disdains it is sordid and 

mean. 
For^ though they confuse me, I like their 

alertness — 
Ma rivals at forty our Sis at sixteen I 



MOTHER'S DAY 

OO at last we've got to Mother, 
^-^ By our deviatin' ways, 

With a thought to plant some gladness 

In th' garden of her days. 
We have bowed to men- immortals 

An' have made a lot of stir 
'Bout th' glory of th' nation — 

But we've been neglectin' her! 

An', th' fact is, she ain't askin' 

Fer no emphasized degree 
Of th' thing men call distinction — 

Law^sy, nol^old Mother she 
Asks fer nothin' more heroic 

Than th' feelin', warm an' snug, 
Of a Mother's Day remembrance 

In a lovin' little hug. 

88 



""-"»v " .■•«i>»m-%!».-»T»i«««c"'"""'"»' 




90 mother'sday 

Mother's Day! I like th' meter 

Of its sweet an' rhythmic ring, 
Fer it breathes of early Maytime 

An' th' very soul of Spring. 
Then it is my thoughts of Mother 

Kind o' run to happy hours 
Back behind th' old home kitchen, 

Watchin' her a-plantin' flowers. 
An' I draw sweet mem'ry pictures 

Of my childhood long ago 
When her step was more elastic 

An' her brow had less of snow. 
An' to-day my soul's a-pinin' 

An' my heartstrings feel a tug 
That is nothin' more than hunger 

Fer a lovin' little hug. 

Folks, they tell me that th' doctrine 

Of our havin' Mother's Day 



MOTHER'SDAY 91 

Is to kind o' ease her burdens 

In a lovin' sort of way; 
Just to send her to th' parlor, 

In her newest Sunday gown, 
With a sweet command, but final: 

"Mother, now you go sit down." 
Pile her high with glad devotions, 

Match her smile with words of praise, 
Till you ketch yourself a-wishin' 

All her life was Mother's Days. 
Draw her closely, fondly to you 

An' you'll feel her old heart chug 
As her tears of gladness thank you 

Fer a lovin' little hug. 



HOWDY, MISTAH PUNKIN! 

TTOWDY, Mistah Punkin! 

-'^ ^ Good mawnin'! Howdy-do 

I been all thoo de Mahket 

To find a scamp lak yo'. 

Mammy says to bring yo' home, 

An' dat's my 'tention, too — 

So howdy, Mistah Punkin I 

Good mawnin' ! Howdy-do ! 

Say, Punk, I'll tell yo' fortune, 
One sho'ly comin' true — 
Ob co'se I knows yo's yallah. 
But dis'll make yo' blue — 
A cullud lady wif a knife 
Am gwine to cut yo' thoo! 
So howdy, Mistah Punkin! 
Good mawnin'! Howdy-do! 

92 




She's gwine to peel yo' hide off, 
Take out yo' innards, too; 
Den cahve yo' all to pieces 
An' put yo' on to stew, 



94 HOWDY, MI ST AH PUN KIN! 

So's when it comes Thanksgivin' 
Her boy kin say to yo' — 
Howdy, Mistah Punkin Pie! 
Good mawnin'! Howdy-do! 



A CREEKSIDE COMEDY 

QOMETIMES I like th' Winter best, 
^^ Then sometimes Spring an' Fall, 
But mostly me an' Pizen thinks 
Ole Summer beats them all! 

We call him Pizen 'cause, you see, 

He gits his feet all sore 
From pizen vines — an' then he can't 

Go barefoot any more. 

Ole Pize an' me has lots of jokes 

In summer-time when we 
Go swimmin' in th' swimmin' hole 

Down by the wilier tree. 

We start a-takin' off our clo'es 

Before we're nearly there 
An' then I holler: ''Last one in 

His dad's a grizzly bear!" 

96 



96 A CREEKSIDE COMEDY 

An' 'course, his daddy's alius it, 

'Cause Pizen can't begin 
To git his shoes an' stockings off 

Before I'm divin' in. 

Then Pizen he gits even when 

He takes th' clo'es Pve got, 
An' soon's Pm divin' in th' crick, 

He ties 'em in a knot. 

An' when we're done a-swimmin' he 

Goes 'hind some tree to hide 
An' yells "Chaw beef!" when I have g( 

To chew my clo'es untied. 

Then soon as we are both dressed up 

We stand around an' grin 
Till both, without a single word. 

Strips off — an' goes back in! 



SANTA CLAUS DAYS 

/^ SANTA CLAUS days! What a 
^^ mystical maze 

You weave all about us to last all our days! 
With skeins of sweet legend of fanciful hue 
Our hearts are forever held captive by you. 
The years may divide the gray present from 

youth 
And garrulous tongues shatter Fancy wath 

Truth, 
Still, deep in our breasts, beam the undying 

rays 
Of heart-holy love for old Santa Claus days! 

My Santa Claus days! Yes, the ones that I 

knew ; 
I am longing to-night for communion w^ith 

you. 

98 



SANTA CLAUS DAYS 99 

Come back down the chimney, O Season of 

Joy! 
And set me to dreaming the dreams of a boy. 

Hang up by the fireplace, on bedpost and 

chair 
The same baby stockings that used to be 

there. 

Hang o'er them the wishes, the hopes, of a 
child 

And let my old heart be a boy's running 
wild! 

Glad Santa Claus days! As I muse o'er you 

now, 
Fond memories, green as the niistletoe 

bough, 

Come trooping before me to laugh and un- 
fold 

Each joy that was mine in the boy days of 
old. 

I greet with glad glances the holly, the tree, 



100 SANTA CLAUS DAYS 

And a Romping Old Tourist, whose riotous 
glee 

Subsides to a smile as he pauses to beam 

On a drowsy old man at his Christmas Eve 
dream. 

Gray Santa Claus days! Though the 
journey is far 

From Used-to-be days to the dream^ days 
that are, 

My faith has not wavered, O Saint of the 
Sleigh! 

As I loved you in childhood I love you to- 
day. 

The cynics may scofif and Truth call me a 
foe, 

But the same old Saint Nick that I knew 
long ago 

Shall live in my soul till I come to the day 

When even my dreams fade and vanish 
away ! 



THANKSGIVIN' PUNKIN PIE 

/^^ TH' luck there is in livin' 

^^' 'Long about good old Thanksgivin' 

When th' crops for which you've striven 

Are all safely gathered by. 
When th' autumn's harvest story 
Is of summer's golden glory, 
Then you're feelin' hunky-dory 

An' you're wantin' punkin pie! 
P— U— Unkin— 

Punkin pie I 



Then there oozes from th' kitchen 
Soothin' odors so bewitchin' 
That they set your nostrils itchin' 

An' put twinkles in your eye. 

101 



102 thanksgivin' punkin pie 

An' you know th' thing tormentin' 
That you ketch yourself a-scentin' 
Is a joy your wife's inventin' — 

Real Thanksgivin' punkin pie. 
P— U— Unkin— 

Punkin pie! 

You don't want to wait a minute 
For a chance to go ag'in' it — 
Want to git your face down in it 

Till it chokes you purty nigh. 
Feel like you could finish seven, 
Tackle nine an' mebbe 'leven — 
But just ONE would be a heaven 

If it's reg'lar Hoosier pie! 
P— U— Unkin— 

Punkin pie! 



THE WONDERFUL LAND OF SEE 

rr^HF^RE'S a wonderful land that babies 
^ explore ; 

We will call it the Land of See; 
It runs from the hall to the old kitchen door, 

Then back to a fond mother's knee. 
And sometimes their world is a big window- 
seat. 

Or under the green bay tree — 
Wherever it is, you will hear them repeat 

Their mystical joy-word: ''See?" 

And what do they see? Well, nobody 

knows; 

To them things are all that they seem. 

The wall-paper's flower quite suddenly 

grows, 

There's snow in the teakettle's steam. 

103 



104- THE WONDERFUL LAND OF SEE 

The mirror is peopled with real little girls 
And not just with faces that beam; 

The bed is an ocean that tumbles and whirls 
And makes the ^'See?" mariners scream! 

They "See?" and point fingers at mythical 
things 
That grown-ups know never could be; 
Yet each pointed finger some memory 
brings 
Quite clearly to you and to me. 
For one time, we, too, on Fancy's gay 
wings 
Made flights 'round a dear mother's knee, 
But Time came along and severed the 
strings, 
Then stole our fair Land of See. 



o 



•WW 







LITTLE LADY TRINKLECAN 

T ITTLE Lady Trinklecan, 

■^^^ 'At's what our next neighbor man 

All time calls me when I go 

'Prinklin' where our flowers grow. 

Ever' day an' ever' day 

'At's what our next neighbor say. 



I ist like to get up soon 
'Fore it's nearly afternoon, 
'Nen go find my 'prinklecan 
An' ist make our neighbor man 
Laugh an' laugh till he can't see 
Laughin' by hisself at me. 

Seem like flowers don't know when 
They must drink some water, 'nen 

106 



108 LITTLE LADY 'PRINKLECAN 

I ist got to go an' look 
If their water's all been took. 
'Nen I got to 'prinkle — see? — 
Till he comes an' laughs at me. 

I ist play like I don't care 

If he's standin' laughin' there. 

Too, he jokes me 'bout my hat 

An' my feets an' things like that. 

'Nen we both laugh — 'cause, you see, 

I ist all time 'prinkle me! 



WHEN YOU'VE BEEN AWAY A 
WHILE 

/^FTTIMES, in life's endeavor, 
^■^^ You grow weary of the way 
Your feet, the slaves of custom, 

Tread the same old paths each day. 
You tire of things and faces 

And, well, somehow, can not down 
A deep, insatiate longing 

Just to get away from town. 
You'd leave to-day's environs 

Far behind you, mile on mile, 
And, to-morrow, would be happy, 

When you'd got away a while. 

The way might lead to cities. 

Or where land and oceans meet, 

109 



110 WHEN YOU'VE BEEN AWAY A W^HILE 

Though, sometimes, Nature's solitudes 

Make freedom doubly sweet. 
But days will come, O Wanderer, 

I care not where you roam, 
When magnets wrought of hearth-love 

Will turn your feet tow^ard home. 
You'll find, too, that you're hungry 

For an honest, friendly smile; 
They seem so worth the having — 

When you've been away a w^hile. 

The homebound train moves slowly. 

Though the tim.e card says it's fast; 
The homebound heart's impatient. 

But all trains get there at last. 
With nose against the window 

You will peer out in the night 
To have your vision gladdened 

By the first electric light. 



112 WHEN you've been AWAY A WHILE 

And if youVe come in daytime 

You will hurry down the aisle 

Half-shouting: ^'It\s the old town! 

I've been gone an awful while!" 



THE MOP MARYS 

TXOWN in the Yard, with its dust 
-*^^ and din, 

Its ''Limiteds" out and ''Fast Mails'' in, 
There toil two women of sturdy frame. 
Unsung in ballad nor known to fame. 
And yet, in life, with its sordid trend, 
They serve a worthy and useful end. 
Mop Marys, they call them, which name 

regards 
The work they do in the Pullman yards. 

We stand and view, with wondering eye, 

The great steel caravan rushing by. 

Yet never a thought commends the arms 

That gave the train its burnished charms. 

We ponder not on the hours of toil. 

The battles with dust and grime and oil; 

113 



T H E M P M A R Y S 115 

Of backs that bend and of aching knees 
That spell train elegance, comfort, ease! 

From dawn of day till the twilight hour 
They mop and dust and scrub and scour, 
Though Life's grim irony 

plays them mean — 
They travel not in the cars they clean. 
Still, back of it all, their hearts aspire 
For something more than their humble hire. 
'Tis an inner joy they can't explain. 
Born when you say: 

^'What a splendid train!" 



THE OLD HIGH CHAIR 

A T the door of a shop 

In quaint Second-hand Square 
Stands a battered, discarded, 

Old-fashioned high chair. 
Its legs have grown wabbly. 

Its back is infirm. 
The arms show the stress 

Of each juvenile squirm. 
Its foot-rest is rounded by shuffling of feet, 
The paint has long vanished 

From arms, back and seat. 
Each passer-by knows, by its vagabond rone, 
That more than one baby 

Has ruled from its throne. 

Each worn arm exhibits 

A spoon's crescent dent 

116 



11-8 THE OLD HIGH CHAIR 

By some little tartar with anger to vent. 
And if you look closely 

No doubt you'll see, too, 
The imprints of teeth 

That were just coming through. 
One almost can picture. 

Through Fancy's design. 
The days when 'twas your chair — 

Or maybe 'twas mine! 
Ah, well, it was some one's — 

This rattlebox throne 
That stands on the sidewalk — 

Deserted ! — alone ! 

But where are the babies? 

The world w^onders where 
Are all of the toddlers 

Who've clung to this chair? 
Have they become grown-ups 

And passed from the maze 



THE OLD HIGH CHATR no 

Of Lullabyland and its baby chair days? 
God grant 'twas not Want, 

Every mother-heart's dread. 
That caused one to barter 

This treasure for bread. 
And if He of Heaven made vacant her chair 
No doubt one as comfy 

Was waiting Up There! 



GOOD OLD MISTER BOBSLED 



G 



OOD old Mister Bobsled 
Friend of long ago, 
How I long to see^ you, Bob, 
Soon as they's a snow. 

Sort of git to feelin' 
How 'twould do me good 
Just to go to tow^n ag'in 
On a bob o' wood. 

Daddy up a-drivin'. 
Me an' ma an' Milt 
Sittin' there behind him 
Snugged up in a quilt. 

Comforters a-plenty, 
Irons to warm our feet. 
Yes, an' sticks o' hick'ry wood 
Servin' fer a seat. 

120 



GOOD OLD M I S T E R 15 B S L E D i^i 

Hear th' snow a-creakin' 
As we'd scoot along, 
Somethin' kind o' angcl-like 
In th' runners' song. 

Nick an' Nell a-trottin' 
Down old Heston road, 
Nary thought about their sins 
Er their heavy load. 

Good old Mister Bobsled, 
Though ye're out o' style, 
Still ye've got them fancy sleds 
Beat a thousan' mile. 

'Least that's my opinion, 
iVn' I'd ort to know — 
'Cause me an' you was kinfolks 
Forty years ago. 



THE HANDICAP OF RICHES 

TT ERE, looky, Jimmy! Lookyhere! 
-"^ ^ Dat's w'at I meant, ye see, 
A-blowin' how de rich guy's kids 
Ain't got no edge on me. 

It's named a radiator, Jim, 

A fancy heatin' scheme; 
A 'ristocrat's base burnerer 

'Cept it's he't up by steam. 

Now, w'at's got me a-guessin', kid, 

Is how old Sant' will do 
Wen he bumps up ag'in' a shack 

Wit' pipes instead o' flue. 

Naw, swells ain't got no chimblys, pal, 
Per dat's not style, ye see, 

122 



THE HANDICAP OF R T C H E S 12:5 

An' how dem poor rich kids'll git 
Deir gifts is puzzlin' me. 

Dis s'pose ole Sant' did go thoo pipes 

'Bout all dat he could take 
Would be a string o' wieniewursts 

Er artificial snake. 

Jim, dat ain't square w'en guys like us 

Got chimblys in our house 
Wat lets de ole saint scramble down 

As quiet as a mouse. 

Still, 1 ixpect he'll find a way 

To reach de rich kids, too, 
An' I ain't hopin' dat he won't; 

I ain't dat mean — are you? 



AN EARLY AUTUMN LULLABY 

OUAIMAH'S gone a-glimmahin' 

*^ An' de Fall-time's in de breeze; 

Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
De 'simmons am a-waitin' fo' de fros' 
To hit de trees; 
Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
De 'possum am a-skimmin' out to fin' 

A place to hide, 
De bobolink's gone southwahd 

To wintah wif his bride, 
De whole creation's singin' 

An' yo' mammy's satisfied — 
So, hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 

De no'th wind am a-shahp'nin' up 

To pinch ma baby's toes; 
Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 



AxX EARLY AUTUMN LULLABY 135 

Yo' daddy am a-splittin' wood 

To buy his baby clo'es; 
Hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 
De turkey gobblah's struttin' 'roun' 

An' showin' off his pride, 
De punkin's got so fleshy 

Dat he's layin' on his side, 
De worl' am full ob music 

An' yo' mammy's satisfied — • 
So, hush, ma little 'possum-lubbin' babe! 



THE PLUGGER 

'T^HEY call him just simply 
-*■ The Plugger, 

An old horse, worn, clumsy and gray, 
He drags an old wagon marked "Transfer" 

From dawn till the close of the day. 



He hasn't a charm you would speak of, 
His hair has the thickness of wool ; 

Just one thing they say of The Plugger — 
He's there on the long, steady pull! 

The high-headed colts leave him trailing 
And give him the dust of the road, 

But when they are drooping and weary 
Old Plugger goes by with his load. 

126 



T H E P L U G G E R 127 

So take your life's lesson from Plugger, 

Of logic his story is full; 
Don't spend all your strength 
in the morning — 

The evening load's hardest to pull! 



AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 

^T^HE sun, athwart the willow's 

^ Latticed limbs, 

Jewels the water, tints the leaves ashore; 
The wind, sweet singer 

Of a thousand hymns, 
Low chants the lyrics of a thousand more. 

A haze, November's garb of filmy gray, 
Hangs spectre-like, 

Above yon Fairview hill. 
Now, but for waters rippling on their way. 
My world this morning is a world a-still. 

The sycamores, white-bodied giants born 
To save the forests from a Stygian fate, 



128 



130 AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 

Seem somber now — 

Grim woodland kings forlorn 
Beside the dogwood's brilliant robes of state. 

The path is strewn 

With leaves of countless hues, 
Countless indeed as are the years that span 
The distant time since first 

The frosts and dews 
xMade Autumn's pageant glorious to man. 

The silence breaks! 

Adown the towpath's way 
Children pursue 

Youth's fabled Forty Thieves! 
Behind the trees 

They seek their fancied prey 
And search for footprints 

In the fallen leaves. 



AUTUMN ON THE TOWPATH 131 

Ah, children dear, 'tis you, 

Not I, that's thief. 
Though thief you call me 

In your childish play; 
You robbed me of a daydream — 

Sweet, but brief — 
And lured my Autumn reverie away! 



IN THE BACK-LOT LEAGUE 

^TT^HINGS are doing on the Common, 

^ Down the alley, up the street; 
There's a Tyrus Cobb expression 

Worn by every kid you meet. 
There is talk of "rotten empires," 

Talk of games both lost and won, 
All proclaiming that the season 

In the Back-Lot League's begun! 

Mother's ball of twine is missing, 

Store string saved since carlv fall. 
But she knows it now is serving 

As her Back-Lot Leaguer's ball. 
In the yard she finds old broom ends, 

Mop ends, hoes and things like that, 
Proof to her that once good handles 

Rival now the store-bought bat. 

132 



134 IN THE BACK-LOT LEAGUE 

In the evening on the corner, 

Where the arc light casts its rays, 
Future diamond kings sit "fanning," 

Talking over scores and plays. 
Just one problem proves perplexing, 

One that makes the pitcher pout: 
''Why — dis 'cause his Dad's a copper— 

Dassen't no one strike Red out?" 



THAT FELLOW 

rrr^HAT fellow who has power 

^ Abounding in his heart 

With which to stop your sighing 

And give the smiles a start; 
That fellow who says "Howdy," 

When "Howdy's" what you need 
To slow you down and make you 

Forget the Grind of Greed; 
That fellow has within him 

A soul that I contend 
Comes mighty near to being 

The synonym of friend. 

That fellow, you may notice. 

Will pause to pat a nag. 

Or bind a dog's abrasions 

With handkerchief or rag. 



185 



136 T H A T F E L L W 

You'll see him lead a blind man 

Across the crowded street, 
Then slip some wreck a nickel 

And help him to his feet. 
You'll hear he smokes and cusses, 

Drinks sometimes, too, they'll say, 
And yet he's always bright'ning 

Some other fellow's way. 

That fellow — well, his culture 

May not be up to form, 
But in his calloused handclasp 

There's something good and warm. 
He seems, somehow, to blossom 

Where weeds of sorrow grow, 
Though mighty little Bible 

He'd ever boast to know. 
And if the watchful angels, 

Who bless that heart of his, 
Were asked: ''Is he a Christian?" 

Tm sure they'd say: "He is!" 



THE OLD TRACK GANG 

?np>WAS just an ould photograph, 

^ Faded an' yellow, 

Long treasured in somebody's Album, 

Oi know, 
But from it came mimories, 

Sacred an' mellow, 
Thot gave me back fr'inds 

Av a glad long ago. 

It brought to me moind 

Th' ould thrack gang, begorra, 
Thim b'ys as well knew 

How a rail should be laid; 
Thim lads as could work 

All to~noight an' to-morrow, 
Thin spit on their hands 

An' go livel a grade. 



138 



THE OLD TRACK GANG 139 

Though humble an' poor, 

They were min, let me tell ye, 
Wid gintlemen's proide 

In their sinew an' bone; 
Their hearts were as babes 

If a sorrow befell ye, 
But pity they'd none 

For a blackgyard or drone. 

Down there on th' thrack 

Wid their shovels an' gauges, 
Their picks an' their crowbars 

Av hefty desoign, 
Ye heard not a word 

About History's pages, 
But: ''Squint at that rail, lads. 

An' git it in loine." 

Shure they had no derricks 

Or fancv invintions 



1^0 THE OLD T R A C K G A N G 
For liftin' the rails 

From th' top av th' car; 
They used Oirish muscle 

Av Trojan diminsions 
An' tumbled thim off 

Wid th' aid av a bar. 

They tamped ties an' laughed 

Av their own youthful glory 
Whin they wint a-sparkin' 

On Erin's ould sod; 
They paused now an' thin 

For th' joke av a shtory 
An' pitied poor divils 

Thot carried th' hod. 

At noon, whin th' boss 

Sounded truce for an hour, 
Their dinnerpails filled 

Iv'ry innermost nade; 



Thin, p'aceful an' calm 

As a midsummer shower, 
They smoked their dudeens 

In th' cool av th' shade. 



But thim was th' ould days — 

Days sacred an' mellow — • 
Whin thrack-layin' shkill 

Was a virtue, begob, 



142 THE OLD TRACK GANG 

So take off yer hat to ould gaiiius, 
Young fellow — 

Thim b'ys could build railroad — 
An' loaf on th' job! 



THE WATER CURE 

T^VERY human bein' livin', 

^-^ 1 suppose, some time or other 

Feels a kind of vagrant impulse 

To go seekin' pastures new; 
You grow tired of work an' worry, 

Long for other scenes an' faces 
'Way off where th' world is gayer 

An' th' skies a brighter blue. 
But I've cured mvself of havin' 

All those wild, unsettled longin's 
An' th' antidote is simple — 

Simple, sweet an' free from pain. 
I just light my pipe an' wander 

Down along th' quiet river, 
Climb a stump an' voice my gladness 

In this made-by-me refrain: 

143 



144 THE WATER CURE 

I would rather be a ripple 
On an Indiana river 
Than a cloudburst in Sahara 
Where they celebrate a rain! 

There I sit an' watch th' water 

As it rambles to'rd th' ocean, 
Kind o' holdin' back an' wishin' 

Th^c it didn't have to go, 
While th' ripples seem to anchor 

'Long th' shore among th' grasses, 
Glad to be in Indiana 

An' to cease their restless flow. 
An' I let my fancies figure 

That th' shore-bound ripples really 
Come to port to seek contentment 

An' escape Th' Ragin' Main. 
Then I just grow glad all over 

That I'm Hoosier-born an' happy 




* 



■^?-. 



145 



THE WATER CURE 



An' have got a home to go to 

Where my heart can chant this strain 

I would rather be a ripple 
On an Indiana river 
Than a cloudburst in Sahara 
Where thev celebrate a rain! 



THE GIRLS OF FTVE-MINUTES- 
TO-EIGHT 

The old corner clock was in gossipy mood, 

And so, in a spirit of jest, 
I asked it, of all the girls that it knew. 

Which ones it thought dearest and best. 

*'Just give me the Girls of Five-minutes-to- 
eight," 

The street clock w^as quick to reply. 
''The happiest moments of all in the day 

Are when they go fluttering by. 

'Tn laughing battalions they hurry along 
To office, to shop and to school ; 

They have but one thought — to get there 
at eight! — 
Their day's long enough as a rule. 

147 



1^8 THE GIRLS OF FIVE-MINUTES-TO-ETGHT 

'^I glory to see them in ginghams and lawns. 

In bonnets of dainty design; 
I smile when they call me their dear Father 
Time, 

Which makes them all daughters of mine. 

^'They're business girls — yes, and happy 
ones, too, 

They've harnessed no masculine mate; 

Not one of them wishes to wash some man's 

dishes — 

At night — at Five-minutes-to-eight!" 



